Kiwi fidgeted in the car seat and began unwrapping the stick of gum as slowly as he possibly could just to give himself something to do. He popped it into his mouth and started to chew, bored out of his mind. Three hours he’d been sitting outside the apartment block in the hatchback, and still nothing had happened - the Toyota was still parked out front, still wheel clamped!

He folded the gum’s silver outer wrapper into a tiny paper airplane, turned and sent it soaring through the length of the car’s interior, making an engine noise in the back of his throat. When he turned back, he gave off a gasp of surprise at the sight of a dark haired, mustachioed man who was crouching down by the Toyota, removing the first wheel clamp.

"Keep your cool, Dave, keep your cool…" he said to himself, and quickly donned a pair of sunglasses and reached for Helen’s cell phone (which Frank gave him earlier so they could keep in touch). He punched in Mark’s number and waited for an answer.

"IT’S GO-GO-GO MATE!" shouted Kiwi enthusiastically.

"Whoa there Kiwi! This isn’t ‘Starky and Hutch’ you know!" Frank cried, laughing at his friend’s exuberance, "I take it Mike Gregg’s turned up?"

"Yeah, yeah! And your not gonna believe this, but I recognize the guy,"

"Yeah, believe it or not he’s a re-enactor who makes and sells armor. We don’t know him as Mike Gregg though, we know him as Martin Grantham."

"Hey, that’s right!" Kiwi exclaimed, "so, what do I do now?"

"Okay." Kiwi chewed his gum fast, watching as Mike opened the trunk if his car and stowed away the clamps before climbing into the front seat. "Here we go," the New Zealander breathed nervously. He started the engine and prepared to pull away.

"Will do." A slow grin played across his face, "This is gonna cost Kyle a fortune in vehicle hire charges," he said.

"No wheels - no investigation," Frank replied matter-of-factly and terminated the phone call.

***

Mark Randall sat with his arms folded tightly in front of him, looking out of the window sulkily to avoid any sort of eye contact with Rob Randall.

The car journey had started calmly enough, both chatting pleasantly, planning what they were going to say to Helen when they caught up with her, but, as usual, it ultimately culminated in world war three.

First of all, they couldn’t agree on what station to listen too on the car’s antiquated radio. Rob had wanted to listen to a rock station, Mark a commercial channel.

Mark said loudly, over the top of the thundering beat: "I can’t believe you like listening to this tripe Rob, you can’t understand a word being sung – it’s totally soulless!" he reached out and changed to another program. Rob immediately switched it back again, and turned the volume knob up even higher.

"Fine!" snapped Mark, sitting back in his seat.

"Listen to yourself, Mark, you sound like a forty year old sometimes," sneered Rob.

"No, I’ve just matured, dear brother, whereas you still have a mental age of 14!" he leant forward and switched the radio across again.

They played the ‘switching the radio stations backwards and forwards’ game for another two minutes until Rob finally took the front off the radio and pushed it into the door compartment on his side.

Next they started bickering over the speed Rob was driving at.

"Slow down Rob, it won’t do us any good if you kill us before we get there."

"Stop being a back seat driver, little brother!" ‘Little brother’ was a term that REALLY wound Mark up, and Rob knew this very well. He waited expectantly, knowing Mark was going to explode.

"DON’T CALL ME ‘LITTLE BROTHER’!

"Why not? That’s what you are - In age as well as stature."

Mark wound the window down, hung his head out and screamed, "ARRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Rob jumped, causing the car to swerve across the carriage way, the car behind honked it’s horn. He yanked Mark in by the scruff of the neck angrily, "don’t do that again, or else you will have an accident, and I don’t mean via a car pileup!"

"Take you hands off me…" snapped Mark, jerking away, "…that’s your answer for everything isn’t it? Getting physical!" Mark checked the speedometer again, "are you going to slow down, or what?"

"Right, that’s it!" snapped Rob, and started to pull over, "you think you can do any better?"

Mark nodded.

"Right, then YOU drive."

"Gladly," muttered Mark.

They climbed out of the car and Mark walked around the front to the other side, while Rob headed around the back. The younger Randall brother took the opportunity to put the front back on the radio and turn it to his choice of station before popping it back into the door pocket. He smiled congratulatory at himself in the mirror and pulled away, Rob steamed away beside him.

They traveled for an hour in complete silence, at a more sedate pace with Rob resisting the growing temptation to goad his brother into an argument about the speed he ‘wasn’t’ driving at. He decided, instead, to lay his head back and catch forty winks.

"Oh, no…" Mark suddenly muttered.

"What?" asked Rob, sitting up, instantly alert.

"The car’s misfiring."

"Misfiring! What have you done?"

"What?…Me?…I’ve done nothing," spluttered Mark, "have you looked at your car lately Rob, it’s on it’s last legs - it’s a junk heap!"

Rob opened his mouth to reply, but was struck dumb as the car started to cough and slow down, finally grinding to a complete halt.

"Oh, just terrific!" Mark groaned. He popped the hood and stepped out, slamming the door behind him with unnecessary force.

"HEY!" yelled his brother angrily, bolting out after him.

Rob stood behind Mark and started hopping about and ranting. Mark ignored him and calmly opened the hood fully and leaned inside. "When’s the last time you changed the oil and cleaned the plugs?" he wanted to know, wrinkling his nose up at the state of the engine.

"YOU BUSTED MY CAR!" Rob raved.

"Don’t talk soft," Mark remonstrated, "you got a rag?" he asked, slowly removing the distributor cap with his penknife and popping the screws into his pocket.

"The only wet rag around here is YOU little brother."

Mark turned on Rob, and looked him up and down through narrowed eyes. "What’s that on your shirt?" he asked, pointing at the hem.

"What?" Rob asked lifting up the corner to see what his brother was talking about.

"That," said Mark. He took the material and proceeded to wipe the engine component with it, leaving behind an ugly, black, greasy stain.

"NO WAY, MARK!!!"

Rob ripped his shirt off, threw it on the ground and started jumping up and down on it.

Mark started laughing out loud, and lifted the rota arm. His turned it over in his hands, rubbed away the carbon deposits and reconnected the unit. The whole time, Rob was still jumping up and down behind him, venting his annoyance.

Mark slammed the hood, "yes Rob, really mature!" he commented and got into the car again. He turned the key and the engine started first time, "SKILL! – Get in, we’ve wasted enough time on your rust bucket as it is!"

Rob lurched around to the driver’s side and yanked Mark out of the seat, "I’M DRIVING!"

"Please yourself."

Rob changed the radio channel again, daring Mark to complain and floored the accelerator, causing the wheels to squeal and smoke. His brother just folded his arms and looked silently out of the window.

Half an hour later, Rob decided he’d had enough of the heavy atmosphere and pulled into a service station. He stalked away, leaving Mark to follow on as best he could. Loosing sight of him in the crowded area, Mark had to search for ten minutes around and around the café and stores until he finally sighted his brother sitting in an alcove with a cup of something brown in front of him. He stood in the queue and purchased a cup of ‘tea’ before sliding into a seat in front of his older sibling.

"Took your time didn’t you?" Rob grumbled.

"Would’ve helped if you’d waited for me.

"Humph!"

Mark sipped his drink, and glowered at Rob, while Rob glowered back with identically shaped and colored eyes.

"Why is it…" started Mark, "…Joe and Frank manage to rub along together, but we fight like cat and dog?"

"Their mutants?" Rob suggested, checking out a pretty girl as she sashayed passed.

Mark watched as Rob and the girl smiled at one another, "surely not, they can’t be the only brothers who get on."

"Wanna bet?" answered Rob, "do you think for an instant that if Helen wasn’t in trouble I’d be spending this time with you?"

Mark felt like he’d been sucker punched straight in the solar plexus. He rose instantly from the table and started to walk away, leaving his beverage only half drunk, "see you back at the car," he said quietly, stopping next to his brother for the briefest second without turning round, "don’t feel the need to hurry."

He marched out into the parking lot, musing depressingly over what Rob had said, "Does he really hate me as much as that?" he reflected walking between two cars and stepping out into the roadway.

Suddenly he heard a loud honking noise, and his blood froze in his veins, his head jerked up to see an articulated truck bearing down upon him. He stood paralyzed, looking up into the eyes of a panicked driver, who was looking back down at him. He heard the bellow of the air brakes and knew he’d been hit when he felt himself flying through the air. He landed hard and saw stars.

"OH M’ GOD, OH M’ GOD!!!" he heard someone yelling, horror stricken, and felt himself being quickly turned over and saw it was his brother, "are you alright Mark?" he snapped.

"I think I’m dead!" he replied, confused.

"I doubt it bro, the artic. never hit you," said Rob, "luckily I’d caught up and was right behind - I never realized I could react that quickly," he smiled, "knew the weight training would come in useful one day, you’re not the lightest weight I’ve ever lifted and thrown!"

Mark sat up and checked himself over, "thanks Rob, that was a close call!"

"Too close."

Rob offered his hand out and Mark gripped on and was hauled to his feet.

They got into the car and Rob put the cover back on the radio and switched it over to his younger brother’s favorite station. Mark looked across at his brother, his eyebrows set so high, they were almost traveling off the top of his forehead, ‘Pink Panther’ style.

"Sorry about what I said in the café," said Rob quietly, amazing his brother further.

"No…I’m sorry."

"We’re both a sorry excuse for a pair then…"

***

Frank stood at the entrance to the high-rise block and started to work his way down every number on the security keypad, finally a voice came on the line, "Yeah?"

"Special delivery!" he announced. The satisfactory noise of the security buzzer was heard and he quickly pushed open the self-shutting door and stepped inside the bleak looking foyer area. He pushed through another set of fire doors and walked forwards, his footsteps echoing in the starkness of the building.

Upon reaching the elevators, he immediately saw that one of the two cars wasn’t working – it’s doors wedged open with a block of wood, obviously having been vandalized. He shook his head and pressed the call button with his middle knuckle rather than his fingertip, hoping morbidly he wouldn’t catch anything from the last person who’d pressed it.

He watched the floor numbers counting down above the door, noting that several failed to light up - obviously the elevators where long in need of servicing.

The doors slid open and four teenagers stepped out, glowering at Frank who ignored them. They stopped and checked him over, invading his personal space. When he didn’t back down, they reluctantly allowed him to pass. Frank felt self-conscious and vulnerable in his expensive trainers and jeans and felt relieved when the doors finally closed on them. He realized all at once just how much he was missing having Joe at his side.

He pushed the button, the smell of stale urine suddenly assaulting his nostrils, forcing him to put his hand under his nose and breath through his mouth. "Aw Jeez, the quicker I get this over and done with, the better," he thought feeling itchy.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out Mark’s phone and dialed.

Joe immediately answered and tapped "…." onto the receiver, which was the letter ‘H’ for hello.

"It’s me, Frank. I’m just about to go up to the apartment,"

"[..- / - - - - - / -.- / ..--..] U ok?" asked Joe.

"Yeah, fine," answered Frank, sounding more confident then he felt, "just thought I’d keep you informed of my movements. See you later."

"[-… ‘B’] bye." Joe said, and hung up.

As the lift he was traveling in only called at evenly numbered floors, he was forced to exit the level below and walk up the bleak concrete stairwell.

Finally reaching Mike’s door he rapped loudly and stood for a good thirty seconds before he was satisfied no one was home. He pulled out his lock pick and inserted it into the keyhole and started to fiddle about. Less then 30 seconds later, he was entering the premises, pulling the door securely shut behind him.

Something had struck him as odd as he stepped inside, so he allowed himself a few seconds to inspect the doorframe. He saw it had been recently repaired, and there was a huge padlock on the inside, hanging on a steal bolt. "Wonder who or what he’s trying to keep out?" he wondered.

He walked down the hallway and opened the first door on the left, just passed the empty coat hooks. It was a storage cupboard, packed high with junk, he doubted there was anything of use in there, and closed it again.

He headed around the bend and opened the door on the left this time, discovering a small bath and basin, a quick glance around confirmed in his mind that this was not worthy of a search.

Opposite was a large archway, which (as he had already seen from the front door) led through into the lounge. He entered and stepped over the waste paper basket that had been kicked over at some point, it’s contents now tipped all over the balding carpet. He bent down and turned the trash over, but found nothing of interest.

He went to the sideboard and started mooching through the draws etc, but found nothing there either. He was starting to feel impatient, and caught himself constantly checking his watch, watching the second hand rapidly moving around the face. He had to remind himself that Kiwi would phone him if Mike was to head back.

He shook himself and went over to the coffee table and instantly saw something that made him smile. Sitting on the top was the ring Tim had made for them, slowly gathering dust. "YES!" Frank thought exuberantly. He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket, opened it and put it against the edge of the table, he plucked his pen from his top pocket and hooked the ring, pushing it over the wood until it dropped into the bag – ensuring that at no point did his hand touch the evidence. He rolled up the bag and popped it into his top pocket, patting it affectionately and grinned.

The next-door opposite was the toilet, which he backed away from quick smart –remembering only too well the state of the elevator.

He walking into the bedroom, the only one in the flat. "This is more like it," he thought and stepped inside. The bed was unmade, the blankets obviously not having been changed in quite a few months. He began looking through the bedside cabinet, noting that most of the contents which should have been in the drawer were on the floor. Finding nothing, he instantly moved on to the wardrobe.

Discovering the laundry basket next, he tipped it upside down, and (rather than touch anything with his hands) kicked it about a bit with his foot. He found a blue shirt and turned it over excitedly to see if it was missing a front pocket, however the pocket was still attached. Disappointed he stood up again, considering whether or not to replace the laundry inside the basket. After a couple of seconds, he shrugged his shoulders thinking that Mike wouldn’t notice the difference anyway.

As he passed the bed, his eye caught site of something familiar on the table, he approached closer and realized it was the brass paperweight that had once stood next to Helen’s phone. He got out another plastic bag and bought his hand closer to pick it up, halting mid grasp, "No!" he considered, stopping himself, "I’ll leave it here, for the police to find, it will instantly provide a physical connection between Mike and us."

He left it where he’d found it and headed out into the hall again. He stood in the kitchen doorway and looked doubtfully at the dishes stacked in the sink. Pulling open all the draws and cupboards he mooched about, finally coming up empty-handed.

Deciding enough was enough, he decided to leave. As he advanced down the narrow passageway towards the front door, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching outside. They halted and there commenced a heavy pounding, "Open up Mikey Boy, it’s Phil and Brendan - your friendly neighborhood tough guys - we’ve come for the ring! I hope for your sake you’ve got it for us this time!"

Frank grimaced and glanced around in earnest for somewhere to hide. Opening the built-in storage cupboard next to him, he squished inside and pushed his way between a clothes dryer and an old, rusty, bike frame. Finally, he pulled the door shut on himself as far as possible with his fingertips.

Heavy pounding recommenced on the front door, this time louder and with more force – obviously the two men outside where trying to kick their way in. All at once, there was the sound of the doorframe giving way and the door springing open, bouncing off the wall. Two sets of feet shuffled inside and Frank held his breath, the sound of his heartbeat deafening in the confines of the cupboard.

He chewed at his bottom lip, sensing one person was still standing in the doorway, while the other had entered the building to take a look around. "if only they’d BOTH move inside, I could slip away!"

Frank reached out and ran his hand gently down the cupboard door, hoping to find something he could hold onto, to fool anyone pulling on it that it was locked – no such luck, the surface was completely smooth.

All at once he felt the door move away from his fingertips – someone was opening it! He froze, readying himself for being discovered, feeling the color draining from his face.